The Four Color Theorem, or, I Am An Old Geezer

I was introduced to the Four Color Theorem when I was in college. The theorem dates back to 1852, when Francis Guthrie was coloring a map of the counties of England. He noticed that he needed only four colors to fill in the map, so that no two adjacent counties had the same color. Guthrie, who later became a mathematician and botanist (a curious combination) in South Africa, communicated this observation to his professor, the mathematician Augustus De Morgan, and asked whether this was true in general. In other words, given any map containing bounded regions (counties, states, etc.), can we color all these regions with only four colors, and avoid having any two adjacent regions with the same color?

This may seem a trivial, possibly silly, theorem, but its eventual “proof”, in 1976, has divided the math world into two groups: the Young Turks, and the Old Geezers. It turns out that, in 1976, at the tender age of 24, I was an Old Geezer.

The theorem was extremely difficult to prove. By 1890 we had proof that five colors would be sufficient, but the proof that four colors would be sufficient seemed elusive. One proof was published in 1879, and another in 1880, but both were eventually shown to be incorrect. Curiously, it took 11 years in each case to show that the proofs had defects.

In June of 1976, Kenneth Appel and Wolfgang Haken at the University of Illinois announced that they had proven the theorem. Their proof was controversial: for the first time, a computer had played a central role in proving a theorem.

I will not go into the details of the proof other than to say that they used the counter-example method. Let’s say that I want to prove that not all states in the United States are south of Canada. I start by assuming the opposite, that all states are south of Canada, then look for one example (a counter-example) where this is not true (Alaska). Once I have proven the opposite to be false, the original must be true.

The counter-example that Appel and Haken sought was a map where the minimum number of colors required was five. When they showed that this counter-example didn’t exist, the original theorem, that a minimum of four would suffice, was proven. This involved two mathematical properties of maps: reducibility, and unavoidability. In searching for the counter-example, the two mathematicians reduced the number of maps that had to be examined from an infinite number to just 1,476. (This is the reducibility part of the proof.) These maps were checked by computer. The computers of the day were not as fast as today’s versions, so it took more than a thousand hours of computer time to check the maps. The unavoidability part of the proof was performed by hand, actually by Haken’s daughter, and involved the examination of 400 pages of microfiche.

This is the part that rubbed mathematicians the wrong way. I can prove that vertical angles are congruent on a 3 x 5 index card. I can prove the theorem of Pythagoras on a half-sheet of notebook paper. There are other proofs that are far longer and more involved, but I can get through them with a reasonable amount of work. The Appel-Haken proof, on the other hand, is beyond my ability to follow. I can check the math that reduces the number of maps from infinity to 1,476, but the checking of the maps by the computer is something I can’t do. What if there is a flaw in the computer program? How do we know that there is no flaw? And the mind-numbing examination of 400 pages of microfiche requires a determination that few of my fellow amateur mathematicians possess.

There was, in fact, a flaw in the proof, discovered by a masters student in 1981. It was in the unavoidability portion of the proof, the 400 pages of microfiche. Appel and Haken corrected the error, and found that the proof still held. The final word on their work is their book, published in 1989, that corrects the error discovered in 1981, and includes the 400 pages of microfiche. It has the gripping title Every Planar Map Is Four Colorable, and can be purchased here for a mere $121.03, at the time of this writing. That is one expensive paperback.

But the use of a computer to do work that is unreasonable for a human to do still sticks in the craw. The year 1976 was a watershed year in mathematics, separating mathematicians into two groups: those of us, the Old Geezers, who object to the use of an algorithm that, in itself, can’t be proven to be accurate; and the Young Turks, who buy the proof based primarily on the fact that no flaw in the algorithm has yet come to light. It is an unsatisfactory situation.

Mathematicians have continued working on the proof of the four color theorem. The number of reducible configurations has been lowered from 1,476 to 633, but, as before, the checking must be done by computer. Another group of mathematicians has found a way to avoid having to trust the various algorithms that have been used to examine the reducible configurations. They did this by using Coq, a computerized theorem proving program. We are down to trusting one program only.

My view is that the four color theorem is very likely true. It is also my view that we do not yet have definitive proof that it is true. I remain an Old Geezer.

Black Mirror

I have been listening to the Night Call podcast since its inception more than a year ago. (There is one podcast per week, and the most recent one was podcast number 70.) Those of you familiar with the podcast will find it strange that I listen to it. To be honest, I succumbed to the advertising hype surrounding the launch of the podcast. I thought, given the name and some of the pre-launch advertising, that it would be in the same vein as the late Art Bell’s radio show Coast to Coast AM. I was wrong. This is how the website describes the show: “Every Monday, hosts Molly Lambert, Tess Lynch and Emily Yoshida, gather in dark rooms for a free jazz blend of pop culture theory, internet fascinations, and venture down a plethora of half-baked conspiracy theory rabbit holes. Drop us a line with your night call at 240-46-NIGHT or nightcallpodcast@gmail.com, and we'll offer our best advice on life, love, and the coming apocalypse.”

The three hostesses are, I believe, writers for web-based publications. At least one of the three is a movie reviewer. I listen to the podcast for a variety of reasons: I hear about movies or television shows that I would never discover from my friends that are my age; I get information on topics that engage the interest of that generation known as “millennial”; it kills time during my Monday morning commute to work. As to point two, I find myself looking up phrases and abbreviations they use on the air. It seems that “casting shade” has nothing to do with relief from sunshine. I had to look up an abbreviation when a female guest pronounced herself “DTF” with respect to some good looking male movie star. The baby boomers and the millennials are two generations separated by a common language.

But it is thanks to the Night Call podcast that I learned about the television series Black Mirror, a Twilight Zone-style creation of the screenwriter and producer Charlie Brooker. While The Twilight Zone dealt with a variety of sensitive topics, such as racism and nuclear annihilation, in the guise of futuristic or otherwise fictionalized settings, Brooker has focused Black Mirror on the relationship between man and technology.

Season five was just released on Netflix. The first two seasons, plus a Christmas special, were produced for Channel 4 in the United Kingdom. Each of these seasons contained three episodes. Seasons three through five, plus an interactive movie (Bandersnatch), were produced for Netflix. Seasons three and four had six episodes each. For the recently released Season five, Brooker returned to the three-episode season.

My opinion is free, and you will certainly get your money’s worth with my opinion. Given that caveat, I believe that the first two seasons, and the recently released fifth season, represent some of the best television that I have seen.

The very first episode of season one, The National Anthem, was disturbing, but not out of the realm of the possible. Its focus is the public’s appetite for humiliation. While it was undoubtedly critically acclaimed (“serves as a cautionary tale about the power of the collective 'hive mind' that is social media”), if the remaining episodes had been that intense, I would never have finished the series. Fortunately, the second episode returned to a more Twilight Zone-like pattern. Episode three (The Entire History of You), the second best of the first season, introduced me to Jodie Whittaker, who is the current incarnation of The Doctor in the long-running series Doctor Who.

I enjoyed the second season, although I did not think it lived up to the standards set by the first season. But in comparison with seasons three and four, and the ridiculous movie Bandersnatch, season two was high art. It seems that the move to Netflix and the extension to six episodes per season had compromised the originality of the show. I barely made it through Bandersnatch, and was not sure that I should commit the time to see season five. Now that I have seen the series, I’m very glad I did.

All three episodes of season five are good, but if you have time for only one episode, see the second one, Smithereens. It is a commentary on our social media addiction, and its consequences.

I am not a movie reviewer, and my tastes in plot twists may not be yours. Give the series a try. See season one, and if you like it, go straight to season five. You can pop back and try season two after that. As to seasons three and four, that’s up to you. If you are in doubt, try Nosedive, the first episode of season three.

After that, throw away your cell phones.

Que Será, Será

I admit to being saddened at the death, on May 13, of Doris Day. It is not that it was unexpected: back on April 3 of this year, my favorite radio station (Sirius Channel 73, the Forties Junction) celebrated her 97th birthday by playing her hits throughout the day. One is not surprised by death at age 97. Her death seems to be the final break with the Hollywood of a different era.

Even in my childhood I knew she could sing, because of her hit song Que Será, Será, which still played on the radio in the ‘60s (it was recorded in 1956). But for the most part, I thought of her as an actress. Pillow Talk, the light romantic comedy featuring Day and Rock Hudson, would be the first film title to come to mind when her name was mentioned. I was also aware that she had a television show in the late 60s and early 70s. (I was unaware at the time that she did the show to pay off debts accumulated by her third husband and the husband’s business partner.) Recently I saw the two movies she did with James Garner. I highly recommend Move Over, Darling, a 1963 re-make of the 1940 film My Favorite Wife. If you want to relax with an entertaining movie that doesn’t tax the brain, then a Doris Day romantic comedy is what you want.

I have yet to see the 1956 Hitchcock film The Man Who Knew Too Much, which features Jimmy Stewart and Doris Day. It is this movie that gave us the tune Que Será, Será. It is on my “to see” list. What could be wrong with this movie? It features three winners: Hitchcock, Stewart, and Day.

It has been my great pleasure, though, in recent years, to listen to Doris Day, the singer. Her breakthrough as a singer occurred in 1945, when she recorded, with Les Brown and his Band of Renown, Sentimental Journey. For all I know, Les Brown my have recorded that tune a million times, but there are two versions that stand out, one with the Ames Brothers, and one with Doris Day. When I hear the opening measures of Sentimental Journey on the radio, I have my fingers crossed that I will hear the lovely voice of Doris Day, and not the mellow voices of the Ed Ames and his brothers. I could listen to her sing My Dreams Are Getting Better All The Time, Day By Day, On Moonlight Bay, Till The End of Time, I Got The Sun In The Morning, and for that matter, the Manhattan telephone directory, all day. Her voice was as sweet and as smooth as any voice I’ve heard.

Her film image was that of a goody two-shoes. I once heard a comedian say that his stereo speakers stopped putting out after he played a Doris Day album. The ever-virginal image is hard to square with the fact that she was married four times and had a son by husband number one. The image, though, has a basis in reality. She was most likely not a prude, but she did turn down the role of Mrs. Robinson in the movie The Graduate because she found the script to be “vulgar and offensive”.

Every animal lover celebrates Doris Day for her commitment to animal welfare. She started at least two foundations devoted to the welfare of animals. Every year on her birthday, her hometown of Carmel, California, held a three-day celebration to raise funds for her animal foundation. She was such an animal lover that she was a vegetarian.

Her likes have been gone from Hollywood for many years, even decades. And now the original is also gone. Fortunately, we live in an age of technology: her music and her films will be with us forever.

I Never Order Waffles at Waffle House

Back in 2001, and again in early 2002, comedian Lewis Black visited The Punchline, in Atlanta, and used recordings of these sessions for an album, The End of the Universe. According to Black, the end of the universe is not “out there” somewhere. It is in Houston, Texas where, Black discovered, a Starbucks coffee shop on one street corner – directly across the street from a Starbucks coffee shop. The skit, which runs a bit under four minutes, is quite funny. You can find it on YouTube.

We do not have that problem here in Madison, Georgia. We had a Starbucks several years ago. I don’t recall ever visiting the place, but it seemed to be busy every time I drove past. It was closed during The Great Recession. It was busy up until the day they closed the joint down, so I do not know why the company made that particular decision. I guess some things are meant to be mysteries. Soon thereafter, a Chick-fil-A moved into the empty building, and it seems to be doing a booming trade.

Madison recently regained a Starbucks, inside the Ingles Supermarket, which brings back to mind the question, why did they shut the first one down? Who knows? Maybe the rain in the Pacific Northwest affected the thinking of the corporate executives. After a month without sunshine, one grumpy CEO may have just come up with the idea to deprive Madison, Georgia, of overpriced, slightly burnt-tasting coffee in a fit of rage against the weather out there.

We do, however, have two of the same restaurant out near the interstate. As you may have guessed from the title of this column, we have two Waffle House restaurants, one just north of the interstate (Waffle House number 773, at 1941 Eatonton Highway), and one just south of the interstate (Waffle House number 325, at 2050 Eatonton Highway). They are located about ½ mile apart. So if you ever find yourself at exit 114 on Interstate 20 in Georgia, you can get to a Waffle House without ever having to make a left-hand turn at an exit ramp.

For those of you unfamiliar with Waffle House, it is (I think) primarily a southern institution, which began in 1955. In fact, every morning that I drive to work, I pass the site of the very first Waffle House, in Avondale Estates. (It is now a Waffle House museum; before that, a Chinese restaurant. Waffle House number 1000 is just down the street from the museum.) The restaurants are generally on the small side: perhaps as many as a dozen booths, and probably fewer stools at the counter. It is a classic grill, where the food is cooked in front of you, and a jukebox stands ready to play the tune of your choice. The yellow sign is always lit, as the restaurant never closes. The clientele is varied: you can find nicely-dressed churchgoers returning home from a Christmas morning service, to drunks very late at night partaking of that old DUI preventative, coffee.

The menu is decent. You can get a T-bone steak, or a pork chop, or ham, or a steak sandwich, or a hamburger, etc. But I generally order breakfast there, regardless of the time of day. My standby is two or three eggs scrambled with cheese, and sausage. I always choose grits instead of hash browns because, well, just because. And if I am really peckish, I top the meal off with a slice of pie, usually pecan.

I have frequented a bunch of Waffle Houses over the years, yet I don’t recall ever running into a surly waiter or waitress, regardless of the time of day (or night). In my experience the food is uniformly good across all the restaurants. And the prices are quite reasonable.

Kathy was in Asheville last week, checking on her rental property and visiting with her granddaughter, Emma. She always leaves me with food to eat, but Thursday night’s dinner just wasn’t enough, so along about 10:30 I decided that hunger pangs did not befit a man of my advanced years. I hauled myself up on my hind legs, and drove over to Waffle House Number 773, the closer one.

The fellow who seemed to be the crew chief that night didn’t appear to be that old, but his official Waffle House name tag bore the appellation (no, I’m not kidding) “Grandpa”. Grandpa took my order, then relayed it to the short order cook using a slang that apparently only they can understand. The only item I could figure out was my order for sausage (two syllables), which came out as “hockey pucks” (three syllables, so what’s the point?). Someone else placed an order while I was there, and Grandpa shouted “chicken with feathers”. I have no idea what that might be.

The three eggs with cheese, order of grits, four slices of toast, sausage patties, and fresh coffee were all very nice, but not quite enough. I topped it off with a slice of pecan pie, then headed home for a little nap before bedtime.

Having two Waffle Houses on the same exit does not, in my opinion, constitute the End of the Universe. It represents, instead, A Mighty Convenience. I’d rather have two Waffle Houses than two Starbucks any day.

And just for the record, I’ve never ordered a waffle at a Waffle House, though I hear they are excellent!

Drug Court

I take the libertarian position on the war on drugs: we’ve lost. What we should do is admit defeat and legalize them all.

Part of what motivates those who commit property crimes and muggings is the high cost of drugs. These miscreants need a good bit of money to feed their habits. They get that money by breaking into homes and mugging innocent people. If we legalize drugs, the cost decreases, along with the need to commit property crimes and muggings. When was the last time you were mugged by a wino in need of a bottle of MD 20/20?

Legalization is difficult for one to accept if one knows a drug addict. The tendency is to look at legalization as enabling the drug addict in his habit, and this is a difficult thing for a friend or family member of a drug addict to endorse. I understand completely. A few years ago, a young friend of mine died as a result of a heroin overdose. He was a talented artist who had done some work for our company, Chile Today Hot Tamale. I do wish this young man had been able to get help with his addiction. But the fact remains that heroin was illegal when he acquired it and overdosed on it. Things could not have been worse if the drug had been legal. In fact, things may have turned out differently, if, for example, the FDA had established purity standards and specifications on active heroin content of the last packet he purchased.

I seriously doubt that I will live long enough to see drug legalization. But I do see a program that appears to be making a difference. This is a difficult thing for me to say, because I also take the libertarian position on government programs: a bloody waste of time and money, for the most part. The program is called Adult Treatment Court Collaborative, commonly known as Drug Court.

I live in the Ocmulgee Judicial Circuit of the 8th Superior Court District in Georgia. This court decided to develop a drug court, to deal with addicts or alcoholics who seem, in the opinion of the judges, to be capable of turning their lives around. The court didn’t have to do this. Drug courts impose extra work on the judges of the circuit, and thus not every judicial circuit has a drug court. In fact, nationwide, there are a bit more than 3,000 drug courts targeting various demographic groups. The drug courts that target adults specifically are less numerous. The latest figure I can find is that there are 1,558 drug courts nationwide targeting adults.

Drug Court is an option available to judges as an alternative to incarceration, with some requirements attached. First, Drug Court is available only to those 18 years of age and older, who have committed a criminal offense and are facing at least two years of remaining or pending jail time. Second, Drug Court is not available to those who have committed the “Seven Deadly” sins of murder, rape, sexual battery, armed robbery, aggravated assault, sexual molestation, and aggravated sodomy. Third, the participant must be able to participate in the program both mentally and physically. Mental participation means that the candidate for Drug Court must not have a brain injury, and must have a minimum IQ of 70.

This is a program that lasts anywhere from 18 to 24 months, depending upon the decision of the judge, and contains a voluntary 6 months aftercare component. If the participant graduates from Drug Court and participates in the 6 months aftercare program, then the participant can petition the court to have any probation remaining on his or her sentence terminated. This is not a given: everyone – judge, prosecutor, sponsor, surveillance officers – must be in agreement. Given what I’ve read about the program, I suspect that some will find jail time a bit easier to do. So Drug Court isn’t for everyone. It is for those who really, truly, want to kick their habits and start life anew.

There are four phases to the program, with different requirements for each phase. There are, however, some features common to all four phases. Each participant is subject to random drug screening. If the participant fails, he or she is off to see the judge, who may decide that an overnight stay in the jail is sufficient. On the other hand, depending upon the judge’s experience with the participant, the judge may determine that the participant needs to serve the remaining two years of his or her sentence. It is also possible for the judge to order a residential treatment program. Drug Court has a counseling and treatment component, and all participants are expected to comply with these requirements, as well as probation requirements. The participant must meet weekly with a case manager, and must attend two or more court sessions per month. I suspect this serves as a reminder of what happens when one strays off the beaten path. The participant must adhere to a curfew (7 PM for phase one up to 11 PM for phase four), have a sponsor, attend community support meetings (AA, NA), and, if the participant does not already have a high school diploma, earn at least a GED.

There is also a work requirement. The participant must be engaged in what the court calls “sustainable employment”. The court’s definition of this term means employment of such a nature that income and payroll taxes are withheld from each paycheck. Our sheriff now spends a good bit of time trying to arrange sustainable employment for the participants. Additionally, there is a $1,000 fee due at graduation. The case managers encourage each participant to make installment payments over the 18-24 month period, so that the participant isn’t hit with this fee in its entirety upon graduation.

The court employs surveillance officers who make random visits to the participants, day or night, at work or at home. They catch curfew violations, and look for signs of drug or alcohol use.

Why do I say that this program is making a difference? Thanks to a series of articles in our local newspaper, I have discovered that I know quite a few participants and graduates. These are hardworking people who I would trust to look after my home or children. They seem to be living productive lives, and each one greets me with a smile. I am sure that, for them, every day is not all sweetness and light. News flash: the same holds true for most everyone. But they are honest and sincere, and they are building a new future for themselves, and their families.

I just wish that young friend of mine had been given the chance these folks have been given.

Who Murdered Aggie Albert?

Those of us who have spent the bulk of our lives in small towns are horrified when a murder occurs in our beloved community. Such was the case with the citizens of Covington, Virginia, in July of 1992.

My first wife and daughter (we had only one child at the time) moved to this small town in Alleghany County, Virginia, in 1982. The county itself is situated in the Allegheny Mountain range (no, the two different spellings are not typographical errors), and is roughly 50% national forest. Given that half the county is owned by the federal government, and half of the remainder is to be found on the sides of mountains, it isn't surprising to learn that the population is small. I suspect that the county's population then was somewhere in the ballpark of 13,000 to 14,000 people. The city of Covington is the only independent city in the county (and, by quirk of law, is thus not a part of the county, even though it is the county seat). My guess is its population was between 7,000 and 8,000 people: a nice, small town.

Esther Agnes “Aggie” Albert was youngest of the eight children of Francis J. and Nomnum Bertrus Albert. One brother, “Boodie” Albert, was a beloved football coach at the high school, and the high school stadium is named for him. At the time we lived in Covington, only three of the children were still alive: Lilly (born 1905), Rosalie (born 1918), and Aggie (born 1923). I believe the three sisters, who lived together, were of Lebanese ancestry. At any rate, they always brought absolutely delicious Lebanese food to the get-togethers at Sacred Heart Catholic Church, on Main Street.

The sisters were devout Catholics and devoted great time and energy to the church. On July 2, 1992, Aggie, retired from her position as a chemist at the local Mead-Westvaco paper mill, was working on a church fundraiser, “The Zany Follies.” Given her devotion to the church and the relative safety one feels in a small town, it was not surprising that she felt safe working at the church late into the evening. (The time that is most often given is around 10:30 PM, though I am not able to establish whether this was the time she left her home to go to the church, or the time she left the church to go home. Since there would be no witnesses to the latter, I assume the former.)

Her half-naked body was found in an alley next to the church on the morning of July 3. She was discovered by a man who had spent the night in jail, which was across the street from the crime scene, recovering from a bit too much booze. He was not a suspect in the murder. Aggie had been strangled and raped.

Her killer was never found.

That same night, a young man in town committed suicide (his body was discovered just a half-hour after Aggie's body was found), and there was some thought that perhaps he killed himself out of remorse for committing this heinous crime. The police ruled him out as a suspect, but did tie him to another, completely different, murder committed the month before.

Over the years, the local rumor mill has churned out a variety of suspects, but never with enough proof to result in an arrest, much less a conviction.

I had moved to Georgia in 1989, and my family (now including two children born while we were in Covington) moved in 1990, after finally selling the house. We learned of Aggie's death in what were, for us, the pre-internet days. This means that we didn't generally learn all the facts straightaway, and we picked up some confusing half-truths. One of the things we heard that caused considerable consternation was that the priest at Sacred Heart was a suspect.

I rejected that possibility outright. The priest that I knew was a good man, with a heart of gold. He had, after all, baptized two of my children. There was no way that I was that poor a judge of character.

But it turns out that the priest I knew had been transferred from the parish shortly after our family left Covington. The new priest was the suspect. The new priest, the Rev. Edward C. Moran, has faced allegations of sexual misconduct on at least two occasions, one of the occasions occurring at Sacred Heart Church in Covington, VA, the summer before Aggie's death. He was transferred from the Covington church in 1994, but once again, in 2005, was removed from a church in Virginia due to allegations of sexual misconduct.

The state did DNA testing in 2002, running the DNA found at the crime scene against known offenders, but did not turn up a match. It isn't clear whether this was due to the fact that there was no match to anyone in the system, or the DNA was too degraded to be of use.

This summer will mark the 27th anniversary of Aggie's death. Unless we have a deathbed confession from the perpetrator, it is very likely that this crime will never be solved.

All the Alberts of that generation are gone. Lilly died at the ripe old age of 92 in 1997, and Rosalie made it to the age of 86, passing away in 2004. The priest who, in my opinion, is the most likely suspect of those I've heard about, appears no longer to be the pastor of a church. There is a Rev. Edward Moran listed as a professor at St. Leo University in Langley, VA. I have no idea if this is the same fellow. All I can tell is that he is either an awesome or a terrible professor, depending upon which of the reviews you choose to believe on the website “rate my professors”.

There is very little good news to this story, but the closest I can find is that the parish priest who, without question, had absolutely nothing to do with this crime, the fellow who baptized two of my four children, did return to the Covington church. He retired from that position July 11, 2018, and apparently still helps out when needed. I knew folks who loved him, and folks who didn't, but he remains one bright point of light in a church that has had its share of darkness lately. So, Father Tom Collins, I salute you, and wish you a very happy retirement.

Mowing the Weeds

Today is day four of my five-day spring break, and I spent it in yard work. As a general rule, I am not a yard person. It is difficult to see the point of mowing the lawn: in a week or two I will just have to do the whole thing again, so why do it the first time? I was inclined just to let the yard go, to be that neighbor, the one that makes all the other neighbors feel superior. That path led nowhere, for a couple of reasons.

The first is a tale of woe from a friend of mine, who was temporarily renting a house while his was being built, or renovated, or something. He was under the impression that the landlord was responsible for the lawn. He was wrong. It turns out there are lawn police in our fair town of Madison. (They probably don't go by that name. I'm thinking, Code Enforcement.) He was ticketed because his lawn needed mowing. That is when he discovered that care and upkeep of the lawn was his job.

Politically, I am a Libertarian, and the whole idea of a government issuing a citation just because your grass is a bit too high rubs me the wrong way. In solidarity with my friend, who, fortunately, is now in his own home not in the city limits, I planned to protest his $25 citation by letting my lawn go, and daring the city fathers to ticket me. That path lead headlong into the second reason why I don't let my yard go au naturel: Kathy wouldn't hear of it.

And so today found me changing the oil and spark plug in my trusty Troy-Bilt, buying a can of gas at the local Golden Pantry, and chasing Lucy around the yard with the mower.

I have learned to enjoy mowing the lawn. It does not require very much thought. I simply follow the line between the cut grass and the uncut grass, a job infinitely easier now that my cataract is gone. I breathe in the smell of spring (i.e., pollen), and let my mind wander.

And today my mind wandered back to October 25, 1992, six days before my 40th birthday. My wife at that time was adamant that I needed to babysit little baby Reilly, who was 11 months and six days old. I, on the other hand, had chores to do, not the least of which was mowing the weeds and ant hills that seem ever to constitute my yard. I suggested that I could babysit if I didn't mow the lawn. She objected: both needed doing. Something in her voice indicated that this was probably not the hill I should pick to die on, if I may be allowed to end a sentence with a preposition. Little did I know that she was planning a surprise birthday party for my 40th: come as your favorite dead person. (Little Reilly came as the Lindbergh baby.) She needed the lawn mowed, and she needed the freedom to go about her planning.

And so I came up with a solution to the problem, which you can see in the picture above, or the video below. I couldn't find safety glasses small enough for Reilly, but I was able to use some ear muffs as noise protectors. And I must say, while little Reilly did look genuinely confused about the whole thing, she took it in stride.

Ah, pleasant memories of yards I've mowed!

TV Nostalgia

I watched a good bit of television as a child, and I remember most of the shows fondly. Today, many of the old shows are available either on DVD or on one of the many streaming channels. I have been revisiting some of these shows, and not simply for nostalgic reasons. I have discovered that most of the older shows were simply better than the modern fare that I have seen.

That statement, of course, does not apply to the technological aspects of the old shows. Modern production values are much better, much more polished. But it seems to me that, for the most part, the writing and acting in the old shows were better.

I began my review of the old shows many years ago, when I purchased the five-season set of The Twilight Zone (1959-1964). It took nearly a year for me to view all the episodes. I have three comments: (1) the story lines were even better than I remembered; (2) the graphics and special effects were worse than I remembered; and (3) there were quite a few actors in the series who later became big stars. I am hard pressed to pick a favorite episode, but I believe “The Silence” (Liam Sullivan, season 2 episode 25) edges out “Time Enough at Last” (Burgess Meredith, season 1 episode 8), “Eye of the Beholder” (Donna Douglas, season 2 episode 6), “Two” (Elizabeth Montgomery and Charles Bronson, season 3 episode 1), “To Serve Man” (Lloyd Bochner and Richard Kiel, season 3 episode 24), and “Nightmare at 20,000 Feet” (William Shatner, season 5 episode 3).

“An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge” (Roger Jacquet, season 5 episode 22), which was adapted from an Ambrose Bierce story, gets an honorable mention. Season 4, the one season when the show moved from a 30 minute to a 60 minute format, gets two thumbs down.

I seem to recall watching something called The Rocky and Bullwinkle Show, or perhaps The Adventures of Rocky and Bullwinkle, but whatever its original title, it has been repackaged as Rocky and his Friends (1959 – 1961). This series is even more entertaining now than when I was a child. This may have been a cartoon, bit it was clearly written for adults. The animation is just short of terrible, but the stories, from the serialized escapades of the squirrel/moose duo, to the historical adventures of the dog Mr. Peabody and his boy Sherman, to the Fractured Fairy Tales narrated by Edward Everett Horton, were top notch, and generally above the comprehension level of a child. The following snippet of dialogue was posted by a reviewer on IMDb, the Internet Movie Database. Boris Badenov (a play on the historical character Boris Godunov) had just set fire to a bridge:

Bullwinkle: “This is an ethical dilemma fraught with portents!”

Rocky: “What does that mean?”

Bullwinkle: “I dunno. I heard it on ‘Meet the Press.’”

Bill Scott and June Foray did the voices of Bullwinkle and Rocky, respectively. William Conrad, aka “Cannon”, was the narrator.

I bought the discs containing the 82 episodes of “Zorro” (1957 – 1959) on a whim. I remembered this Disney Studios series fondly, and now, more than halfway through the discs, I remember why. This is a highly entertaining show, featuring a happy swashbuckler. The star of the show, Guy Williams, plays both Don Diego de la Vega and Zorro. Williams is probably more famous for his role as Professor John Robinson in the campy comedy Lost in Space (1965 – 1968), a show I did not see, but it is hard for me to imagine that he gave any finer performance than he did in his role as Zorro. His smile was infectious, and it was clear that he enjoyed the role. I doubt he did all his own stunts, but he did his own fencing scenes, so I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that he did at least a few.

Judging by the surnames, there were very few Hispanics on the show. Williams looked the part, but his ancestry was Sicilian. The regular characters (Gene Sheldon, Henry Calvin, Don Diamond, George Lewis, Jolene Brand, Barbara Luna, Richard Anderson) were, for the most part, neither Spanish nor Mexican.

The most pleasant surprise of all was The Avengers (1961 – 1969), a British series. I saw only seasons 4 and 5 back in the 1960s, as these were the first two seasons distributed in America. These two seasons featured Mrs. Emma Peel (a young Diana Rigg) as the athletic sidekick of the suave John Steed (Patrick Macnee), and I am sure that Diana Rigg in leather had something to do with my fond memories of the show. (The discs of seasons 2 and 3 reveal that Rigg was but the second leather-clad sidekick.) The show was quirky, bordering at times on campy. Steed and his sidekicks (Peel was the third of four) seemed perpetually to be saving Britain, if not the world, from mortal peril. Steed was the professional, an employee of some unspecified branch of British intelligence, while his sidekicks were talented amateurs, charmed by Steed into risking their lives for some worthy adventure.

The first season is mostly lost. I believe my discs contain only 3 episodes from season 1, in which Steed plays sidekick to medical doctor David Keel (Ian Hendry). After the first season, Keel is gone, and Steed is in command. He works with a variety of partners before settling on Cathy Gale, a PhD anthropologist perfectly played by my favorite sidekick, Honor Blackman. Gale appeared in seasons 2 and 3. The final season saw Mrs. Peel replaced with Tara King (Linda Thorson). Thorson did a nice job in her role, but it is clear (to me, at least) that the series should have ended after season 5.

Honor Blackman left the show in order to take the role of Pussy Galore in the James Bond movie Goldfinger (1964). One of my favorite post-Blackman scenes occurred in season 4, episode 13, “Too Many Christmas Trees”. Mrs. Peel is sorting through Steed’s Christmas cards and reads one card aloud:

“Best wishes for the future, (signed) Cathy”

“Mrs. Gale!” says Steed. “Ah, how nice of her to remember me!” He then studies the envelope. “What can she be doing in Fort Knox?”

I see that this post is a bit long, so I will stop here. I do have one request. If anyone knows where I can obtain the discs for T.H.E. Cat (1966-1967, starring Robert Loggia), please get in touch with me.

A Proper Barbershop

Last week was my mid-winter break, and I spent the week working on our short term rental properties. According to Mark Twain, “[H]istory doesn’t repeat itself, but it often rhymes.” In my case he is wrong: history does repeat itself. I seem to spend every break from school working on these short term rental properties.

I had fewer jobs scheduled for the Asheville house, but they seemed to be more physically demanding: hauling out an old sofa, hauling in a new sofa, putting together the new sofa, as no furniture seems to come assembled these days. The other jobs were minor, in comparison. For the Beaufort house, the jobs seemed to multiply. I started with a list of three projects, but minor jobs seemed to keep popping up. Kathy hung a bag that had to weigh 25 pounds on a hand towel rack that was probably designed to hold at most three pounds, and the hollow wall anchors gave way. The new toggle anchors should hold 100 pounds. She lifted the drain lever in one bathroom sink, and the ball rod, many years old, snapped. Of course, the sink is non-standard, so that repair took a bit longer than expected. Still, after three days of hard work, the list of chores was completed, just in time for me to return to my paying job.

The weather was bad in Asheville. We left a cold and rainy Madison for an even colder and rainier Asheville. Fortunately we did not see snow. The day we left Asheville for Beaufort, we left 40 degree wet weather for 77 degree sunny weather. That, of course, was the last day of good weather in Beaufort, the day we were barely there. Although the temperature wasn’t as cold as in Asheville, it was a bit too cool for short sleeved shirts.

Lest you think it was all work and no play, I have to report the two Beaufort excursions that made my week. The first excursion was to The Lollipop Shop, on West Street, less than a block from Bay Street. It is pointless to pretend that I do not have a sweet tooth: I came by it honestly, through the genes. My maternal grandmother loved her candy. I am hard pressed to pick which she loved the most: hard candy, bubble gum, or snuff, as she was constantly sampling one of the three. She would have loved this shop. Their selection of candy is overwhelming. I have narrowed my focus to Jelly Belly jelly beans. I believe they carry every possible flavor, and in bulk. I generally fill one bag with sour cherry jelly beans, another bag with root beer jelly beans, and a third bag with cream soda jelly beans. I cannot walk by the shop without losing $40.

My second excursion was at 7:30 AM, my normal time to visit Harvey’s Barbershop, on Bay Street. With the exception of my back-to-school haircut last August, this has been my barbershop for more than a year now. Sadly, I do not live in Beaufort, so that means I visit Harvey’s about once every 12 weeks or so. I am generally in serious need of a haircut when I get there.

Furman Harvey opened the barbershop in 1936, and the business is now run by his two sons, Ray and Johnny. By the luck of the draw, Johnny has been my barber on all occasions except for the one time that Ray cut my hair. I don’t plan it that way: I’m always a walk-in, and I go to whichever brother happens to be available.

Harvey’s is a right proper, old-school barbershop. Johnny and Ray are barbers: I would never think to call either a “stylist”. The shelf contains the old bottles that are so familiar: Jeris, Clubman, and Lucky Tiger hair tonics. Johnny’s chair has the requisite leather and canvas strops. Of course, the shaving lather is heated. And the conversation is typical barbershop conversation. It is a pleasant way to pass a few minutes, and an excellent way to start the day.

I am guessing that it was sometime during the 1970s that I began getting my hair cut in a beauty salon. It seems that I was not alone, because barbershops have become hard to find. There is a “barbershop” (complete with barber pole outside) in Madison, but that is run by ladies. No hot lather machine there. I am sure there must be one run by men, but I do not know where it might be.

Thus it is that about once every three months I come to Beaufort to knock out a list of chores, and to spend a few relaxing minutes in the company of my barber. A man will travel quite a distance to find a right proper barbershop.

Sleeping With A Movie Star

If you’ve read my past blogs you know I am a tremendous fan of the music of Artie Shaw. In my opinion, he was the finest clarinetist of the big band era, better than Benny Goodman (though I have friends who would debate me on that point). Unfortunately, he had a mercurial personality, and he was prone to quit when things were going well. If there is a better band than his 1938-1939 band, I am unaware of it. Yet Shaw walked out on this successful band, moving briefly to Mexico, only to return in less than a year to form yet another band, which provided music for the Burns and Allen Show on the radio. His inability to stick with a good thing cut into his income: he didn’t record and tour as frequently as he could have had he stuck with one band.

By the same token, he appeared to have trouble making commitments in his personal life. That is, I suppose, the kindest way to introduce the fact that he was married eight times. Two marriages were annulled, and six ended in divorce. Among his ex-wives are four movie stars (Lana Turner, Ava Gardner, Doris Dowling, and Evelyn Keys), the daughter of a song writer (Betty Kern, daughter of the magnificent Jerome Kern), and an author (Kathleen Winsor, who wrote Forever Amber). Of course, my favorite of the ex-wives has to be Ava Gardner. She was born near Smithfield, NC, the town in which I was born, and is buried there. She was married only three times (Mickey Rooney, Shaw, and Frank Sinatra).

Between the demise of my first marriage and the beginning of my second is a stretch of time, approximately 12 years, in which I returned to the dark and dismal days of my youth, and found myself dating again. I have to say that dating was a good bit easier the second time around, if for no other reason than the fact that I didn’t have to worry about pimples. The women I met during that time were absolutely first rate. We were no longer teenagers, we had experienced a bit of life, most of us knew what not to look for in a relationship (and perhaps even a few knew what they wanted in a relationship), and best of all, we had more disposable income than we had during our teenage years. Generally speaking, we had a grand old time.

I dated women from a wide variety of occupations (including one world record holder in long distance running). The one occupation that eluded me was that of movie star. That is, it eluded me until just recently.

For some reason, Georgia has become a desired location for the movie industry, and our little town of Madison, along with neighboring towns of Rutledge, Covington, and Conyers, have had our share of movies filmed here. A retired friend of mine has, for several years now, been avoiding boredom by serving as an extra in movies. I have seen him in several movies, including Selma and the relatively recent Hidden Figures. We had lunch with him the other day, and our conversation turned to his “acting” career, for reasons that will soon become apparent. He has been in so many movies that he lost count. He has not seen all the movies he has been in, and in conversation admitted that he couldn’t remember the names of some of them. The pay isn’t great for an extra, but the food is fantastic. His worst experience, he noted, was a 17 hours work day in Covington, due to delays caused by a storm. There was only one meal provided, because the caterer hadn’t planned on that long a day.

Some years ago he put Kathy in touch with the people who provide extras for movies in the area, and soon enough Kathy was called to the big screen. Her first experience was in the movie Pitch Perfect 3. She spent her day on the set of the French market scene. She was mighty excited about the day, and of course, we had to go out and get Pitch Perfect and Pitch Perfect 2, which, unfortunately, turned out to be musicals. I do not like musicals. A couple of years ago, when it finally reached the theaters, we had to go see it. It was, surprise surprise, a musical. At any rate, we gave the French market scene our full, undivided attention. I did not see Kathy, and Kathy did not see Kathy, on the big screen. A few months later I saw the DVD in Wal Mart, bought it, and scanned it frame by frame. No Kathy. She was left on the cutting room floor.

Two or three years ago a production company made a movie entitled St. Agatha. The filming was done in Madison and Rutledge, with some post-location filming in a studio in Los Angeles, or Hollywood, or somewhere on the left coast. Kathy was once again called to the big screen, and once again we made a mental note to look for the movie in the theater.

It never made it to a theater near us. I never saw the DVD in Wal Mart.

The other day it occurred to me that we had not seen this movie, so I searched the streaming services, and found it for rent on two of them. Unfortunately, the movie was a horror film, and Kathy ends up with sleepless nights after viewing horror films, so she didn’t watch the movie. (She has missed so many excellent Hitchcock movies!) I watched it, and sure enough, about 35 minutes into the movie, she is there, unmistakably, on the screen during the Funeral scene. About 10 minutes later in the film, our friend, the old hand at being an extra, occupied center stage.

I went to bed last night, and for the first time, found myself sleeping with a Movie Star!

If It Moves, Tax It

One of Ronald Reagan’s favorite quotes had to do with the government’s view of the economy. He said: “Government's view of the economy could be summed up in a few short phrases: If it moves, tax it. If it keeps moving, regulate it. And if it stops moving, subsidize it.”

You have probably figured out by now that this quotation came to mind because I am gathering data so our accountant can do our 2018 income taxes. It really does hurt my feelings to have to admit that we have someone do our taxes for us. I have done my own taxes since the 1970s, until just a couple of years ago. I did the taxes when they were extremely simple (the early years, form 1040A, standard deduction), and I did the taxes when they were extremely complicated (as when Mesa Corporation converted to a limited partnership, expanding the number of forms in my tax returns considerably). I still do the federal tax return for the parent corporation of Chile Today Hot Tamale. But when Kathy started a couple of businesses in addition to Chile Today Hot Tamale, it all became too much for me. Do I put her businesses on a Schedule C or on a Schedule E? Do I file one form 4562 for her businesses, or do I file two? I don’t need the headache.

The aggravating thing is that, even though someone else does the taxes, I still have to collect the data that goes into the return. This means going through my tax filing system, which for many years now has been a King Cobra Premium Malt Liquor box (“twelve 32 fluid ounce bottles!”) that sits just to the right of my desk. All year long I toss receipts into the box, and once a year I have to pull them all out, cross reference them with the entries in my checkbook, and toss out the items that are useless for tax purposes.

I was encouraged by the recent tax reform bill, because it promised to increase the standard deduction to the point where many would no longer have to itemize their deductions. Deal me in! The problem is that the one itemized deduction that I have almost never been able to take advantage of may, this year, be significant enough to cause me to itemize. I refer to the deduction for medical and dental expenses.

For most of my working life, medical and dental expenses were deductible only to the extent that they exceeded 7.5% of adjusted gross income. Given that I’ve had pretty decent medical insurance up until this decade, and that I have generally been pretty healthy, I have not been able to claim any medical deduction. That was fine by me. The year before the so-called “Affordable” Care Act was passed, I had a gall bladder removed at an out-of-pocket cost of somewhere between $100 and $150. That seems to me to be a better deal than to pay full fare for the surgery, and deduct the expenses afterwards.

Just last year, eight years after passage of the so-called “Affordable” Care Act, I had a cataract removed, and my out-of-pocket expenses were several thousand dollars. This, mind you, came after the so-called “Affordable” Care Act mandated better insurance coverage than before. I have insurance that supposedly covers more, definitely charges more (about triple the pre-ACA premiums), and actually pays less than before. Given the astronomical deductibles associated with my insurance, I’m not sure that the insurance company paid anything at all.

Because of the cataract surgery for me and an outpatient procedure for Kathy, it is possible that I will need to itemize this year. And if I don’t need to itemize this year? I won’t know until the accountant looks at my itemized deductions. Catch-22.

So here I sit, slowly developing a resentment against a government that puts its citizens through this hassle so that it can spend $139,745 per second ($31, 234 of which will be borrowed).

Some years ago, Mark Levin, who served as chief of staff for Attorney General Ed Meese in the Reagan administration, published a book that outlined a set of constitutional amendments he would like to see added to the Constitution. I believe there were eleven in all. The one I liked most of all was an amendment that moved tax filing day from April 15 to the day before election day in November. I would add one item to that amendment: I would prohibit the withholding of taxes. Let every citizen sit down and figure out his or her taxes, write a check for the full amount, and mail them in just 24 hours before voting on the people who came up with this system.

If we had this amendment to the Constitution, we wouldn’t need term limits for Congress.

Back to the Eighties

During the 1980s, it occurred to me that there were a couple of things I didn’t know how to do. The first area of ignorance was how to tie a bow tie. I had mastered a few necktie knots (the full Windsor, the half Windsor, the four-in-hand, and my favorite, the Shelby), but I didn’t have a clue as to how to go about tying a bow tie. That problem was easily solved. My mother-in-law at the time gave me a bow tie for Christmas one year, and so I was forced to learn how to tie the thing. Even in those pre-internet days, instructions were easy to find. I believe the set of instructions I used came from Parade magazine, the glossy rotogravure supplement inserted into most Sunday newspapers. I am now quite proficient at tying a bow tie, even though I try to avoid all occasions that require me to wear either a necktie or a bow tie.

The second area of ignorance was how to shave with a straight razor. I have wanted to use a straight razor (a.k.a., cutthroat razor) ever since I saw the 1959 Hitchcock masterpiece, “North by Northwest”. [If you haven’t seen this movie, stop reading now, and go watch it.] Advertising executive Roger Thornhill (Cary Grant) is mistaken for spy George Kaplan. Forced to flee the Bad Guys, he escapes New York via the 20th Century Limited train to Chicago. He spends the trip in the company of beautiful Eve Kendall (Eva Marie Saint), who appears to be working for the Bad Guys. I know, this is getting complicated. I’ll cut to the chase. In Chicago, Thornhill pops into the men’s room to shave. He uses the very small shaving brush and microscopically-sized double edge safety razor that, we are to assume, Kendall uses on her legs. Standing next to him in the men’s room, also shaving, is a beefy son of the Midwest, face lathered completely, removing his whiskers with a straight razor. The contrast between the manly straight razor and the tiny lady’s safety razor is obvious.

I nearly bought a straight razor in the 1980s, but I was prevented from doing so by a fluke. The nearest shopping mall to Covington, Virginia (the town where I lived) was about 65-70 miles away, in Roanoke, Virginia. The mall had a cutlery shop that carried nearly every kind of blade known to man, including a few straight razors. I was ready to buy one of the razors, but I was concerned about using it without slicing my face to shreds. The clerk there tried to reassure me, but he did point out that it took a good bit more time to shave with this kind of blade. And then he ended his lecture with “I wouldn’t try doing this at 5:00 in the morning.”

As it happens, at the time I was writing a book, and my writing habits involved getting up at 5:00 AM, showering and shaving, then working until 8:00 AM, when I had to quit working on the book in order to earn a living. If the clerk had said “I wouldn’t try this at 4:00” I would have most likely purchased the blade then. Unfortunately, he used the precise time I was thinking about using the blade as the one time not to use the blade. And so I let it go.

I mentioned last week that Gillette’s “toxic masculinity” commercial had pushed me over the edge. Proctor and Gamble owns the Gillette brand, so I spent some time during the week finding replacements for P&G products. Unfortunately, Proctor and Gamble purchased my beloved Old Spice from Shulton in 1990, so my association with Old Spice, which has gone on for more than 50 years, has ended. No matter: I’m sure that the Mennen after shaves and deodorant I ordered this week will be more than adequate replacements.

I dug out a shaving scuttle that was given to me as a gift back in the 1980s, a scuttle that has a drawing of the U.S.S. Constitution on its side. I purchased a new, badger hair shaving brush. I bought two strops: one of leather (for putting the finishing edge on the razor); and one of cloth (for cleaning the razor). In addition, I purchased a bottle of “1907” strop dressing. All that was left was to purchase a razor.

Straight razors can get quite expensive, up to $1,000 or more. That was out of my league. I decided against the cheap blades, too. No $25 straight razor for me! I wanted a blade that would hold an edge. I settled on the Dovo 5/8 Olive wood-handled razor. I bought it through The Superior Shave Amazon storefront, and it looks to be a beauty. The razor is manufactured in Germany. The reviews were excellent, and the price, $181.32, assured me that I was getting a quality instrument.

I will try it tonight. Since a shave with a straight razor takes a bit longer than with a safety razor, I figured I should do my shaving in the evenings, at least until I become accustomed to using the razor. My goal is to end the first week of shaving with a straight razor without look as though my face had been shoved through a pane of glass.

Unfortunately, this cannot be taken aboard an airplane, and I do not check bags, if at all possible. I wonder if the 20th Century Limited still runs?

The Superbowl

       Superbowl LIII will be played (performed? unveiled?) next weekend in Atlanta, which can only mean one thing: it is time for a nice ice storm. The last time Atlanta hosted the Superbowl, in 2000, the city was struck two weekends in a row prior to the event with ice storms. Everyone panicked, but I seem to recall that it all turned out well, except for the two folks who happened to bump into Ray Lewis after the game.

I hate to admit it, but the Superbowl holds no excitement for me. The last one to really get me going was Superbowl III, fifty years ago, when Joe Namath led the New York Jets to a stunning victory over the Baltimore Colts. Since then, I've watched a few Superbowls, but most years I just give it a miss.

Football really isn't my sport. My high school had excellent football teams during my four years there, but I can't say the same for my college. Clayton (NC) High School was usually in the hunt for top honors. Not so Dear Old Wake Forest. Wake Forest University, during my four years there, managed three wins and one tie. Yes, that was for the entire four years. The year without a win was during my senior year. They certainly didn't get better the longer I stayed there.

I've used this as a joke for so many years that I can no longer recall whether it is true, or not. At any rate, I'll throw it out there one more time. It's the only team I've ever known where the punter was the MVP, four years in a row.

As for professional teams, I've lived in two cities with NFL teams, and neither did very well during my tenure in each city. I moved to Maryland in 1978, and to Baltimore in 1979. The year 1978 was the beginning of a nine-year losing streak for the Colts. I moved from Baltimore in 1982. In 1983, the Colts played their final game as the Baltimore Colts. The team relocated to Indianapolis in the middle of the night on March 29, 1984. The name “Bob Irsay” is still reviled in Baltimore.

I moved to the Atlanta area in 1989, and moved out to the countryside in 2005. Let us stipulate that in 1998 the Falcons had a great season, which netted them an appearance in the 1999 Superbowl. They were unable to defeat the Denver Broncos that year, but any year that results in a Superbowl appearance has to be a good year.

But that was the highlight. I am looking at the Wikipedia article on the Falcons, which refuses to give the win-loss record by year. It does give the overall record for the Falcons: 355 wins, 449 losses, for a winning percentage of 44.2%. The post season is similar, percentage wise: they win 45.5% of the time (10-12). I just don't seem to recall the Falcons as a powerhouse team during my tenure in the Atlanta area.

The television commercials associated with the Superbowl are eagerly awaited each year, but I'm really beginning to get my fill of commercials. It seems that so many now are Deadly Earnest, and Politically Correct. I've used a Gillette Sensor Excel razor for many years now, but once I have used up my pack of replacement blades, it is going into the trash. If I had wanted a lecture on toxic masculinity, I would have joined a feminist church. At any rate, I've always wanted to give the straight razor a try. I can't imagine that the commercials this year will be anything but MeToo-isms.

The halftime show is pure Hollywood: overkill to the 98th power. I have seen a few, but prefer to miss them now. That leaves me out in the cold every now and again (I had nothing to add to the water cooler conversation surrounding the 2004 “wardrobe malfunction” of Janet Jackson), but I can live with that.

It seems to me that the major reason for the existence of the Superbowl is to serve as an excuse for Superbowl parties. I've attended a few, and they usually are great fun, especially if they are attended by others like me, ladies and gentlemen who don't even know who is in the Superbowl. But inevitably there will be real football fans present, people with real interests in who wins, and who loses, and the viewing of the game will gradually become filled with tension. That is generally when I leave the party.

Kathy mentioned something this morning about the Superbowl, and I could have sworn I heard the word “party” in the conversation. I think she has been invited to one, but the jury is still out on whether I am allowed to attend. I wonder why?

Gadget-itis

It is either a blessing or a curse to be living in these modern times if you are enamored of gadgets. And I do love my gadgets. It is possible that I received this blessing, or curse, in my childhood. Every now and again Santa would bring an electronic kit needing assembly, and before you knew it, I had a collection of home-made gadgets: an AM radio, an analog computer, and my favorite, an AM radio transmitter. I believe I was infected then with the gadget bug, and have since lived with a bad case of gadget-itis.

I was born in the early 1950s, so what constituted a gadget has changed considerably during my lifetime. In the late 1950s and early 1960s, the laser was the latest thing. It was The Death Ray, real Buck Rogers stuff, a thing of mystery. The first time I ever saw a laser in person was in the late ‘60s, at N. C. State University. The event was some sort of enrichment day for high school students, and we all were mesmerized by the collimated beam of coherent red light issuing forth from one end of the laser. Fascinating stuff. By now, everyone in America has owned at least three laser beams (I understand there are three in a CD player), and the technology no longer excites. People even use laser beams as pointers for overheads, which to me is a bit like using an atomic bomb to kill a cockroach: overkill.

I think it was during my sophomore year in college that the department received it’s first portable computer. It was a Hewlett-Packard, which was portable only because the CPU, and the compiler, and the paper tape reader fit nicely into a metal rack outfitted with coasters. We could thus roll it from room to room, and hook it up to the teletype machines scattered throughout the building. It was definitely during my sophomore year in college that I saw the very first of the pocket-sized electronic calculators. These, too, were Hewlett-Packard machines, specifically the HP-35 calculator. (I am ignoring the SR-10 calculator made by Texas-Instruments. The SR-10 performed only 5 functions: addition, subtraction, multiplication, division, and the extraction of square roots. Price tag: $125.) Every professor in the department received an HP-35 (price tag: $400 each). I wanted one badly, but couldn’t justify the cost until the next year, when two semesters of physical chemistry practically demanded that I have one. By then, the HP-35 had dropped in price to $300, because of the introduction of the newest model, the HP-45. Being a gadget guy, I of course bought the HP-45 (price tag: $400).

That was 1973. I still have the HP-45, and it still works. They stopped making battery packs for the device decades ago, and some years ago I tired of soldering Ni-Cad batteries together to make my own battery packs, so the 45 is officially retired. But you need to get a feel for the cost of gadget-itis. I spent $400 on a calculator that is inferior to the $13 calculators you now see on the end caps of the calculator row at Staples. The real indignity is that I can buy an iPhone app for the “vintage 45” for $0.99, and turn my phone into a 45. From $400 to $0.99, such is the sacrifice we gadget guys make in order to have the latest and greatest.

I suppose my worst experience with gadget-itis was in 1984. The VCR recorder was coming into its own, and I had to have one. But I didn’t want just any VCR. I wanted one that was portable, so that I could hook a camera into the recorder and make family films. That meant I had to have one that could run off an internal battery pack, in addition to running off standard AC. But more than that, I had to have a VCR that was highly programmable. I wanted programmability for weekly shows, daily shows, one-off shows, the works. I really didn’t need all this flexibility: I just wanted it. That is how I ended up spending $800 for a VCR, and another $800 for a camera. Christmas of 1984 was quite expensive.

In retrospect, I could have saved a few hundred dollars by buying two VCRs: one that was highly programmable but not portable, and one that was portable but not programmable. These are the mistakes we gadget guys make.

What has prompted these reflections is the condition of the battery in my iPhone 5S. The device holds a charge, and works for quite some time at what appears to be a steady discharge rate. But when the phone reaches some critical threshold value of charge, the battery life drops off drastically. Friends tell me this means the battery, and hence the phone, is on the back nine. I don’t know how much longer we will be together, but it probably will not be much longer. So I have to buy a new gadget.

But the thrill of buying a replacement gadget is gone. The 5S and I have been around the block a few times over the past five years, and I hate to part with him, especially if it means a change in my telephone-access habits. I hear the new iPhones don’t have a home key. The fellow at Best Buy reassured me that after an hour with the new iPhone I would be completely comfortable with it. I doubt it. This represents change, and as I have noted in the past, I’m no longer good with change. I haven’t been all that happy since Queen Victoria died.

So my transformation is complete. I am no longer the starry-eyed young gadgeteer, playing with his home-made AM radio transmitter and dreaming of laser beams. No, I am now the crotchety old geezer wondering why in hell Apple can’t make a battery that will last until I finally get around to kicking the bucket.

The Good Folks of Madison

Teaching school is a great gig. I speak from experience: I’ve had other jobs that weren’t so nice. Where else, I ask you, can you get a job that requires you to work for only nine months, yet lets you draw a full year’s salary? I know some teachers complain about the extra hours they put in at home. You will not find me complaining about the hours. My other jobs often found me working at home, even during the weekends. I can’t tell you how many Labor Day or Fourth of July holidays were cut short because I had to travel to some place important for a meeting on the day after the holiday. My regular work week is 47 hours long, not counting commuting time, an improvement over some of my other jobs.

I enjoy the free time the job offers: two months off in the summer, two weeks at Christmas, a week for the midwinter break, a week for spring break, the two days for the fall break, and the holidays scattered throughout the year. My favorite season is summer, and it is glorious to have most of the summer off. The only problem I have is that the days off are set by the school calendar. I do not have vacation days that I can schedule when I wish during the school year. But that is a pretty small inconvenience, to be sure.

My days off tend to be hectic, as I try to fit in all the activities I never quite seem to find the time to do when school is in session. The recent Christmas break was no exception. I spent some of the break relaxing, but some of the break scurrying about, doing the things I ought to have done already. So it was that on the afternoon of New Year’s Eve, 2018, I found myself in a checkout line in Wal Mart.

I was purchasing a cleaning kit for a project. I had one item: a box, containing all the cleaning supplies. As per usual, only four of the 16 or so checkout lanes were open, and there were lines at each of them. Under normal circumstances I would have gone to the self-checkout scanners, but there was a very long line there. I finally found the shortest line, at the “20 Items or Less” register. There were only two sets of customers in front of me.

Immediately in front of me was an elderly lady. Given that I am in my mid 60s, by “elderly” I mean someone considerably older, perhaps someone in her late 70s, possibly her early 80s. In front of the elderly lady was a fairly young family, father and mother with two young children. And this young couple was having a little trouble paying for the food that seemed to be the only items in the shopping cart.

The young mother was trying a credit card when I arrived in line. It was declined. She tried another card. Again, declined. The two children were getting antsy. The father pulled out a card. Declined. The couple didn’t seem to know what to do.

I was getting angry. It is a rule of sorts that the line I choose to enter will eventually become the slowest moving line. I glanced over at the self-checkout scanners. The line was very short. Those folks were getting through the process fairly quickly. Why does this always happen to me?

By the time I turned back to look again at the young family, the elderly lady in front of me had opened her wallet and pulled out a $100 bill. She offered it to the lady working the cash register. And when the cash register attendant returned the change, the elderly lady shook her head, pointed to the young mother, and said “Give it to her.” The young mother tried to refuse, but the elderly lady wouldn’t have it. The grateful and embarrassed young family moved on.

When the young family had gone, I said to the elderly lady, “You really are a very kind person. Thank you.” She said, “I have three children. I know what the week after Christmas can be like.”

I do not know her name, but she is one of my fellow citizens. She is a good person trying to do the right thing as her conscience dictates.

I really don’t care what she thinks of the President, or the Congress, or the wall, or impeachment. None of that matters. She and people like her – not the politicians – make America great.

Welcome to 2019

Happy new year, y’all. I hope that 2018 treated you decently and that 2019 treats you even better.

There are many traditions associated with the arrival of a new year, most of which involve food. The one I observed for most of my life involved black eyed peas, collard greens, and cornbread. Last year I had to make a slight compromise, substituting Hoppin’ John for straight black eyed peas. What can I tell you? It was the only restaurant open in Beaufort, and it was a dive.

One tradition that I no longer engage in is the practice of making New Year’s Resolutions. I’ve made plenty of them over the decades, but I’ve only ever kept one. One year, I made a resolution to dispense with low-to-medium quality booze, and to drink only top-shelf Scotch whisky. Not only was I able to keep that resolution that year, but I kept it for many years thereafter. All the other resolutions fell by the wayside.

Most of the significant changes I’ve made were not as a result of a New Year’s Resolution. I did not wake up one January 1 and say, “Hey, this would be a good year to get married. I think I’ll make that a resolution.” No, it happened in a completely different way.

The same holds true for giving up the tobacco habit. I have known since before I picked up the evil weed in high school that smoking was not good for one’s health. That, of course, is the problem with highly addictive substances. You know they are bad for you, yet for some reason, you try them. After that, you get hooked. And I was hooked on tobacco. I came up with all sorts of justifications. I reasoned that most people have addictions of one sort or another, and the tobacco addiction was cheaper than heroin. (I’m not really sure that is true any longer.) How bad can the product be, given that it is still legal to sell in stores? On and on came the justifications, but in the back of my mind, I knew that one day I would have to give it up.

I tried several times to quit smoking. My most successful attempt lasted nearly 14 hours. I was well and truly hooked.

Several years ago I planned a trip to Australia. After combing through the airline schedules, I decided the best thing to do would be to fly to San Francisco, overnight with my daughter Katie, and then leave for Sydney from San Francisco. Under the best of circumstances, that would require me to go 19 hours without a smoke. With a little bad weather and other delays (for example, customs and immigration control), I could find myself without tobacco for 24 hours.

There was no way I could go that long without a smoke, knowing that one was waiting for me at the end of the flight. That old 747 would be putting down on some tropical island, the police or military would board the plane and haul me off for tampering with (i.e., destroying) the smoke detector in the lavatory. I would to this very day be languishing in some tropical paradise, making license plates, or picking up coconuts, or serving some other kind of punishment.

No, in order to make that trip, I had to quit for good. And I knew just how to do it.

In the summer of 2006, Chemical and Engineering News (a weekly publication of the American Chemical Society) ran a special report on methodologies for treating addictions of various types. I flipped over to the nicotine addiction report. It was dismal. Of all the treatments, the most successful had a one-year success rate of 20%. Although 20% is not a great success rate, it was the best option available, and I took it. And thus I chose Chantix, a smoking cessation product from Pfizer Labs.

My doctor was ecstatic, and told me that if I was serious about quitting smoking, I should take Chantix for three or four months. I agreed. That is, I agreed until I filled the prescription, and learned that my so-called health insurance would not cover any of the price of the medication. And a month’s prescription for Chantix was not exactly pocket change.

I started on Chantix about three weeks before the trip, and then had to make a decision. I would run out of the first month’s supply while in Australia. Thus, before taking the trip, I would have to decide whether to get the second month’s supply, or take a chance that I could make it after only one month on the drug. I took a chance, didn’t refill the prescription, ran out while in Australia, and never smoked again.

In retrospect, I believe the important element was the real desire to quit smoking, a desire I did not have in the past. I probably could have quit without Chantix, given that my mind was in the right place.

So, I do not make resolutions for the new year. This is not to say that I don’t have goals to achieve. One goal is to be a bit more regular in posting these blogs. I’m not making any promises nor taking any vows, but I will make an honest effort.

I hope you enjoyed your black eyed peas, collard greens, and cornbread!

Low Country Speed Trap

We have a rental property in Beaufort, South Carolina, and from time to time we have to pack up our tool kits and head to Beaufort to do a little work around the place. When we travel from Madison to Beaufort, we take the interstate to Augusta, grab the Bobby Jones Expressway, cross the Savannah River into South Carolina, and then take a series of back roads which eventually deposit us in Beaufort. This itinerary takes us through the Savannah River Site, which we affectionately call “The Bomb Plant”. We are not really sure what they do at this national laboratory, but given its proximity to a couple of nuclear power plants, we romantically assume it has something to do with radioactive elements and the bombs they produce.

I particularly enjoy the 18 mile trek through the Site because of the road signs. These warn me: not to stop (so why did you put a historical marker at the Barnwell County line, if I can’t stop to read it?); to beware of the wild hogs (since I drive through there at night, I hope they glow in the dark); not to stop; to stay in your car; to be careful of the dogs that are unleashed for the deer hunt; not to stop.

Wait a minute: a deer hunt? I’m confused. Do you shoot them from your car? Who gets to hunt deer on the property of a national laboratory?

Once we leave The Bomb Plant, we encounter a series of small towns: Allendale, Fairfax, Brunson, Hampton, Varnville, Cummings, Yemassee. The focus of this missive is the town of Hampton.

Some years ago, the AJC (Atlanta’s newspaper, know variously as The Atlanta Journal-Constitution, The Al Jazeera Constitution, or The Atlanta Urinal and Constipation, depending upon your political perspective) ran an article about a fellow in DeKalb County who successfully challenged a speeding ticket in court. The basis of his defense was the radar license that the State Police issued to local law enforcement. In turns out that, in Georgia, the State Police issue licenses to local law enforcement that permit them to issue radar-based speeding tickets if, and only if, the speeder is doing 10 miles per hour or more above the speed limit. DeKalb County had nailed this fellow with radar at some speed less than 10 miles per hour above the speed limit. He won his case, and helped to wipe out a bunch of speeding tickets state wide. He is a hero.

(Before you get too excited, you should know there are some exceptions. The limit applies only to radar operated by local law enforcement. They can still nail you by following you and clocking your speed on their speedometer. The limit does not apply to State Police, who can get you for doing a half a mile per hour over the limit. And there is a very big exception for school zones, even during hours when the yellow lights are not flashing.)

Ever since, I have lived by the 9 miles per hour rule. When you see a posted speed limit, set your cruise control for a maximum of 9 miles per hour above the limit. When I have adhered to that rule, I have driven unmolested. When I have ignored that rule, I have invariably been ticketed. Although the AJC article addressed the state of Georgia only, I have assumed that a similar licensing arrangement must be true in other states.

Some time ago we were driving on a Friday night to Beaufort, for another fun-filled weekend of carpentry, plumbing, and yard work. We enjoyed our trek through the Bomb Plant, and through Allendale County. But then we entered Hampton County, and the trip lost its joy.

Our route did not take us through the heart of downtown Hampton, but on a road that might be considered a bypass. The speed limit signs are hard to see on that road at night, especially given that they do not do a good job of trimming the tree limbs that tend to cover the speed limit signs. Driving back through Hampton during the day, I was able to see the signs through the tree limbs reasonably well. That is not the case at night. (As an aside, Hampton is one of those towns that posts “Reduce Speed Ahead” signs about 20 feet in front of the new speed limit signs, both of which are covered with tree limbs.)

I slowed down to 44 miles per hour because there was a good bit of traffic on this strip. I assumed the speed limit was 45, given that it was a bypass of sorts, populated with gasoline stations and fast food joints. I discovered I was wrong when the blue lights came on behind me. I was doing 44 in a 30 miles per hour zone, and so I received a ticket. If you remember the movie “American Graffiti” you probably remember John’s reaction when he received a ticket: “File that under C.S.” he said, as he passed the ticket to Carol, who stuffed it into a door pouch full of tickets. I had a similar reaction, and filed the ticket in the truck’s C.S. filing cabinet.

I assumed the police officer was being nice: he said he would only charge me with going 39 miles per hour in a 30 miles per hour zone. Sometime during the night it hit me: if I was charged with doing 9 miles per hour over the limit, I could probably fight this in court. So, the next morning, I went out to the truck, opened up the C.S. file, and fished out the ticket. And there it was, printed clearly on the ticket: “39 mph in a 30 mph zone (44)” The 44 in parentheses was my actual speed, printed that way in order to remove that as a basis for fighting the ticket. I paid it online, and wrote it off as a bad experience.

That fall, when my auto insurance renewed, there was no increase in the premium. I assumed that the ticket information hadn’t had time to cross state lines. The next year, my premium was reduced, due to a good driver discount(!). The town of Hampton had plenty of time to notify the state of Georgia, but it didn’t. My premium has never increased on account of that ticket.

I have mixed feelings about this. One the plus side, the ticket did not affect my insurance, and that makes me happy. On the down side, there appears to be one reason only for failing to notify other states about tickets issued to their citizens. A town that does this tends to fly under the radar, if you will pardon the pun. It has a way of enhancing local revenues without generating massive protests from the affected population.

We have a description for towns like that. The proper term is Speed Trap.

Oh Christmas Tree!

Having moved the first 12 boxes of Christmas decorations from the attic to the hallway, I am reminded of a simpler time, a time when the Christmas tree was easy to decorate, and more importantly, easy to take down. I remember specifically the photo above, of my Christmas tree years ago, during the period of my bachelorhood.

  Merry Christmas, y'all.

50 Shades of Gray Hair

In his 1990 autobiography, Ronald Reagan wrote that he was pleased when his hair finally turned gray, as it stopped reporters from asking if he dyed his hair. There is considerably less interest in the color of my hair, but now that the change in color is picking up steam, I, too, will soon be spared the “hair dye” question.

When people asked me whether I dyed my hair, I was aggravated, for two reasons. The first, I am exceedingly lazy. I am so lazy that I don’t even bother using conditioner, though everyone tells me I should. I am able to muster just enough energy to apply a little Brylcreem to my hair, and that’s that. Coloring my hair would require way too much work.

The second reason I get perturbed when people ask me about dying my hair is that the question presupposes that I find gray hair objectionable. I do not. Gray hair, whether in the form of streaks, salt and pepper, or the full-blown silver mane, tends to lend an air of wisdom and sagacity to the bearer. I could use that, from time to time.

I’m not sure what causes gray hair. Age, certainly, plays some role, but it can’t be the only factor. I have had friends go completely gray in their 30s, while people like Ronald Reagan make it into their 70s before turning completely. Surely genetics must play some role, but the extent of that role is unclear to me. My father was gray in his 50s. I do not know about my mother: only she and her hairdresser knew for sure.

In 2005 I was teaching at a boarding school in Dunwoody, GA. We had a week off for spring break, during which time I failed to shave. When the week of spring break was over, I decided to keep the beard, which was predominantly gray to white in color. I had a touch of salt and pepper at the temples, but the rest of my hair was brown. One day, in the Kroger I frequented every week, the little girl running the cash register asked me if I was eligible to receive the senior discount. I was 52 at the time, and so I answered “no.” She flushed. I recalled that my bank, First Union (otherwise known as FU), offered the senior discount at age 50, so I asked the girl about the age eligibility. I forget her answer, but it was somewhere in the distant future. I shook my head “no” again, and she began to turn red. After a little thought, I asked “It’s the beard, isn’t it?” At this point she turned cherry red, and checked me out as quickly as she could without giving me an answer. I went home and shaved the beard.

It is one thing to portray an air of wisdom and sagacity, but quite another to look several years older than I am.

I see more gray strands every day in the mirror, and that part of growing older is something I can live with.

Did I just end a sentence with a preposition?

The Dentist and the Generals

  In July of 1960, General Eisenhower had been President of the United States for seven and one-half years. His mood was light: the burden of office would soon be lifted, and he could retire to his farm in Gettysburg. He attended the Republican National Convention in Chicago that month with the idea that he would enjoy himself. Yes, he had to give a speech, but that was his only obligation. The rest of the work fell to his Vice President, Richard Nixon, who would soon be, officially, the Republican candidate for President of the United States.

Ike delivered a decent valedictory, recounting the state of the United States, paying tribute to the good, hardworking citizens of the country. He read the whole thing. Even though the TelePrompTer had been invented by then, it was clear from the YouTube clips of the event that Eisenhower wasn't using one. He did get a bit emotional at one point, but the bulk of the speech was read in that tidy, clipped, flat tone one associates with the General.

During the convention, Eisenhower mentioned that he kept pictures of four great Americans on the wall of his office. One of the pictures was that of Robert E. Lee. This revelation prompted a letter from a New York dentist, Dr. Leon W. Scott, to the President asking him why. The exchange between the two is given below.

The reference for this is Dwight D. Eisenhower Presidential Library, “Dwight D. Eisenhower, Records as President, 1953-1961; White House Central Files, President’s Personal File Series, Box 743, Folder: PPF 29-S Lee, General Robert E.”

August 1, 1960
Mr. Dwight D. Eisenhower
White House
Washington, D.C.

Dear Mr. President:

At the Republican Convention I heard you mention that you have the pictures of four (4) great Americans in your office, and that included in these is a picture of Robert E. Lee.

I do not understand how any American can include Robert E. Lee as a person to be emulated, and why the President of the United States of America should do so is certainly beyond me.

The most outstanding thing that Robert E. Lee did, was to devote his best efforts to the destruction of the United States Government, and I am sure that you do not say that a person who tries to destroy our Government is worthy of being held as one of our heroes.

Will you please tell me just why you hold him in such high esteem?

Sincerely yours,

Leon W. Scott

Eisenhower’s reply is as follows:

August 9, 1960

Dear Dr. Scott:

Respecting your August 1 inquiry calling attention to my often expressed admiration for General Robert E. Lee, I would say, first, that we need to understand that at the time of the War between the States the issue of secession had remained unresolved for more than 70 years. Men of probity, character, public standing and unquestioned loyalty, both North and South, had disagreed over this issue as a matter of principle from the day our Constitution was adopted.

General Robert E. Lee was, in my estimation, one of the supremely gifted men produced by our Nation. He believed unswervingly in the Constitutional validity of his cause which until 1865 was still an arguable question in America; he was a poised and inspiring leader, true to the high trust reposed in him by millions of his fellow citizens; he was thoughtful yet demanding of his officers and men, forbearing with captured enemies but ingenious, unrelenting and personally courageous in battle, and never disheartened by a reverse or obstacle. Through all his many trials, he remained selfless almost to a fault and unfailing in his faith in God. Taken altogether, he was noble as a leader and as a man, and unsullied as I read the pages of our history.

From deep conviction I simply say this: a nation of men of Lee’s caliber would be unconquerable in spirit and soul. Indeed, to the degree that present-day American youth will strive to emulate his rare qualities, including his devotion to this land as revealed in his painstaking efforts to help heal the Nation’s wounds once the bitter struggle was over, we, in our own time of danger in a divided world, will be strengthened and our love of freedom sustained.

Such are the reasons that I proudly display the picture of this great American on my office wall.

Sincerely,

Dwight D. Eisenhower